


All We Are Is Bullets

by earth2themorgue



Category: MCR - Fandom, My Chemical Romance, my chem - Fandom
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, For the most part, M/M, not saying it's what actually did happen so pls don't come at me thanks, this is my take on what happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22055983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earth2themorgue/pseuds/earth2themorgue
Summary: The story of how Frank and Gerard fell in love and then how they fell apart over My Chemical Romance’s lifespan, told from their alternating perspectives.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Frank Iero/Jamia Nestor, Lindsey Ballato/Gerard Way
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Prologue- Late Dawns and Early Sunsets

I remember him being so beautiful and delicate that I suddenly felt so inept and inadequate in my own skin. 

I remember the curve of his nose and paleness of his face while he stood on the back porch of the house party we were at. The way his exhaled breathes looked just like his cigarette smoke in December’s strident air. The way his eyes flickered to me when I asked for a hit, and the way his hands touched mine for the faintest second when he handed me the cigarette. I remember us burning through it, then another, and then a third, as we shared a few words. The way his mouth moved when he told me his name. 

_ Gerard. _

I remember his shy smile and the sublime nasality to his voice. The way he laughed at my jokes and the way we grew closer together as the night got colder. I remember the way my heart skipped with trepidation when he asked if I wanted to smoke a couple of joints with him in his car. The “yes” that spilled from my lips probably too quickly. I remember the way he gave me the first hit, and the way the flame of his Zippo lighter made his hazel eyes glow. I remember feeling warm, though it must have been below freezing. I remember us laughing and smiling more, and listening to a Morrisey CD on his stereo(the engine was still off, though.) 

I remember when we kissed. 

We were clumsy but emboldened by the drugs, craning our necks over the armrests to reach one another. I remember feeling so electric and awake. I remember the small and breathy noises that escaped him and the way my hand felt tangled in the overgrown locks of hair at the base of his neck. I remember not knowing how much time had passed before we finally pulled away, only out of pure necessity because we were both flushed and panting. I remember his lips, shiny and coated with my saliva, and then I remember him pulling me in, my head feeling light when he parted his lips once more. 

I remember us only kissing that night, but it being enough. I remember him driving me back to my parent’s home, only a few minutes away. I remember us kissing again and then stumbling across my lawn, forgetting that I was high. I remember watching his car leave my driveway and it hurting as if there was a string attached from my heart to his bumper. 

I remember being unable to find sleep that night because I knew I was going to fall in love with him. 


	2. Singing Songs That Make You Slit Your Wrists

I have heard myself sing the same line sixteen times within the past two minutes. 

_Back home, off the run, singing songs that make you slit your wrists._

If I have to listen to another mix that our producer Howard has concocted, I might have to take the lyrics to heart. 

The studio hums with content energy but I feel like bouncing off of the walls, so I excuse myself and try to find a self-destructive behavior to engage in. In another room, I find my bag and fish out a pack of cigarettes, my lighter, and a bottle of pills. The orange-cream plastic makes me salivate as I let a few pills fall into my palm and then slide down my throat with ease. I feel like one of Pavlov's dogs. 

Someone asks what I’m doing. I turn and it’s Frank, disheveled but somehow radiant in a faded t-shirt and jeans. I throw the bottle back in my bag and fumble with my cigarettes, hesitant to meet his eyes. Fuckin’ killing myself, I tell him with a deadpanned tone, but my lips twist into in a sarcastic smile. Frank doesn’t say anything back. He doesn’t approve of my little joke, which I don’t understand, because it’s not like he doesn’t want to die either. 

A few minutes later we’re back in the fiery hearth of the studio. The belly of the beast. I’m behind the control board where Howard sits, finicking with various switches and levers. I lean against the wall because I’m in that precious state of being not quite tipsy but not quite drunk. I should probably drink a little more though and tip the scale. Fuck. I’m awful. I really am. But I do need to drink. I need to if I’m going to get through the rest of this album. Then the tour. Then the tour after that, and then the next album and I suppose the rest of my life as well. Like I said, I really am awful. 

While listening to replays of what I think is going to be a song called Cemetary Drive, I watch Frank. He is on the other side of the glass wall, sitting delicately with crossed legs and headphone-clad ears. A guitar rest in his lap. He absent-mindedly fingers its strings while listening to the playback before nodding, realizing the wrong chord he played, probably berating himself internally because he’s a masochist like that, and then running through the whole thing again when Howard presses record. 

I watch his lips twitch when he nabs those hammer-ons and pull-offs. The way their corners tug and his piercing glimmers when his hands move up the fretboard. It reminds me of the night we first met, years ago, though the memory will never fade as others from that same time have. His lips tugged and curled around the cigarettes and joints we chain-smoked the same way they do now as he plays guitar before me. The same way they do when he is sleeping and dreaming, far away from where I sit, awake and next to him in our tour van as we fly across America’s turnpikes and highways. The same way they do when he is coming, late at night, body beneath mine, eyes tightly closed. 

Frank is not always happy, though he sometimes appears to be. He gets sad, very often and very easily. He uses alcohol as a homemade anesthetic just as I do. He is too hard on himself, and he never wallows or moans when things are shitty because he believes that he deserves it all. He cries a lot, especially when he thinks I won't notice.

From beyond the glass separation, our eyes catch briefly. He smiles and then goes back to his Les Paul. 

Frank is the best of all of us, all of this stupid band. He is the smallest bit of good that is buried deep within me, multiplied by one hundred thousand. He is good, from the touch of his inked skin to the blood in his fragile heart.

He does not put up with bullshit, yet he always takes my moods with patience. He holds my hair back when I am throwing up after a show. And he will tell funny jokes when we are all ready to blow our brains out, even if he too has a gun in his hand. He is good because he puts up with me. He does not complain when I am cold to him at times and then suddenly infatuated with him at others. He does not complain when we only have sex on nights when we are both so fucked up that it reduces the intimacy of the event to a mere transaction for temporary pleasure. Above all though, he is good because I know he loves me even though he knows I do not love him. 

That is why it hurts to scribble out a half-sober manifesto regarding Jim Morrison and my shitty life. I leave it with his things in the other room. I grab another beer and leave, heading for the woods, but also nowhere in particular, just anywhere not where I am right now. 

Frank is good, but I wonder if he will be good enough to forgive me for the fact that I do not plan on returning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading the first two chapters :) I hope you have enjoyed it!


	3. Pick Up the Phone, Fucker

I was confused to see Gerard walk out of the studio when I was playing. I was confused when neither Mikey nor Ray, brewing coffee in the studio’s kitchenette, could tell me where he was. But I was only confused. The panic came a few hours later when we finished all we could for Cemetery Drive without him and called it quits. The panic came when I went to pull a sweatshirt out of my bag and was greeted with a torn piece of notebook paper resting atop of it. 

I think I must have called out Ray and Mikey’s names but I don’t remember anything from that moment besides panic. Then fear. Then panic and fear drumming back and forth and then all at once while I told myself not to cry, oh God, please don’t cry. 

I knew immediately that this was Gerard being Gerard: cryptic but chaotic in what could only be described as an impulsive adventure that may have seen fine to his intoxicated brain but dangerous to the rest of us who knew he was always just a few paces away from being a suicide risk. 

Us three, and a few people from our production team huddled around the note in my hands. Someone asked if he was going to kill himself.

“No, he couldn’t be doing that.” I said. But I knew that everyone was looking at the words “Jim Morrison” and thinking the exact opposite. I had only said what I did to calm myself down. 

I had called Gerard’s cell when he initially disappeared because we needed him to record some more vocals and I figured he was just outside smoking. It had gone to voicemail. 

_Hey, you’ve reached Gerard._

Now my trembling fingers dial his number again, hoping for a different outcome. 

_If you’re hearing this, it’s because I’m too busy sucking blood from my victims to pick up the phone._

It doesn’t happen. 

The production crew doesn’t really know us or Gerard, so what are they supposed to do? To them, he’s just another wayward proto-rockstar who’s going to off himself just like the others they’ve encountered. They suggest waiting until tomorrow to do anything else. 

But Mikey’s really worried. Ray is too, with perpetually creased eyebrows, but he reminds us to stay calm and logical. _He’s done things like this before._ _He was just drunk. He needs some time to cool off. It’ll be okay. Frank, did you call him again? It’ll be okay._ _It’s just Gerard being Gerard._

We eventually come back to the hotel that the production studio rented out for us while we record. I usually share a room with Gerard, Mikey and Ray in the other, but tonight we all hole up in mine, calling his cell phone every 15 minutes or so until our fingers go numb. I haven’t let myself cry yet because there’s been no time to be alone. My throat feels like it’s encased in barbed wire from holding back the tears. 

After splitting a six-pack, Mikey and Ray pass out, and I trudge into the bathroom, letting myself finally, _finally_ , crash. 

I cry stifled and choppy tears because I don’t want the boys to hear and the panic makes me lose my breath. I re-read his note that I’ve kept in my pocket over and over again. _Going on a hike._ My lips tremble. _Need to find myself._ I try to make sense of his reasoning. _Jim Morrison._ The phrase feels like a knife to the gut. 

I had always known that Gerard was unhappy. He wrote songs about it, after all. But I had seen this unhappiness up close and intimately. The first time we had sex was only a few nights after when we first met. Though we were high out of our minds, I could see the pale white lines that adorned his upper thighs and torso. Most were faint and small, but there were a few that were thick, almost embossed--rippling the skin and tender beneath my touch. 

He would tell me about his unhappiness as well, while we lay on the carpeted floor of his bedroom, naked and chainsmoking. _I always thought I’d be dead by the time I got to my twenties._ He had said that while using his finger to trace the tattoos on my chest. _Now I’m here, in my twenties, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do. I didn’t plan on any of this shit._ Then he would make some joke about wanting to kill himself. He’d look around the room and theorize what objects he could use to do the job. And then he’d laugh. I’d laugh too. And I’d ache deep down inside to tell him, to shout at him, that I could help him if he would let him in because if anything ever happened to him, I would have to cease living as well. 

But I could never say those things. 

I could only laugh, tell him to shut up, and suck me off. Because that’s just how we were back then, and how we still are today. Every time I try to care for him in the way I wish to, in the way boyfriends do, he pushes me away. Because I’m just someone that he fucks when he’s drunk. And I used to be okay with that. But I knew from that first night that I was bound to fall for him. And when I did, it made things harder. 

Suddenly, it was not enough to light up and make out in the upstairs bedroom of a house party. It was not enough to give each other handjobs in the dressing room before a show, shit-faced drunk. 

Suddenly, I wanted him when I woke up lethargically on a Sunday morning. I wanted him while the sun was setting outside the windows of our tour van. I wanted him without alcohol, I wanted him without drugs. 

The thing is, all of this may not even matter anymore because Gerard may be dead, lying in some ditch in The Valley, waiting to be discovered and sold in the form of a photograph to TMZ. I try not to throw up. If I hadn’t given such a large fuck about the social constructs of relationships-- _our fucking relationship_ \-- I could have told him not to take those pills today, or I could have told him long ago that I love him, but he needs serious, serious help. 

The night passes. And then another. Radio silence. I am in the bathroom once again, pondering sickening possibilities and blaming myself. I creep out of my hiding momentarily to grab my laptop, and then recluse myself again. I open up the recording program because I’m losing my mind, thinking about him out there, all alone. I’ve been crying so my voice sounds wretched, but I need to do something. I’m going to ask the world for help. 

“Hey guys, it’s Frank from the band My Chemical Romance,”

Fuck. I sound fucking awful. Don’t cry. Just hold it in. Make something up. Fuck. I let a fake cough out. 

“Uh, this message is very important but I’m sick so I’m gonna make it quick, um. We have a few more songs to do for the record. And uh, Gerard said he was gonna get to them as quick as possible,”

I think about the last time I saw him. Smiling at him. Beaming, knowing he was watching me play. 

“But he left two days ago for a hike, uh, wearing a black shirt with a grizzly bear on it,” 

I think about him that morning, getting out of our bed, pulling that dumb shirt over his head and laughing when I teased him about it. 

“And, uh, w-we haven’t seen him since,” 

I think of him, wandering L.A., fucked up and suicidal. 

“We found a note, it said something about him being the next Jim Morrison,” 

I think about his name being listed on Wikipedia's article about the 27 Club. 

“And something about life being a bag of shit.” 

I think about the scars on his body. The hoarseness of his voice when he sings the words to Headfirst for Halos. 

I finish the memo, post it to the website, and then pray to everything holy in this world that the next time I see him, he will be alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thank you all so much for the hits and kudos thus far. It has been motivating me to continue writing. I'll have another chapter out soon! I hope you all are starting to see the parallels between the chapters and real life. Thank you again!


	4. And For The Last Night I Lie, Could I Lie Next To You?

I wake up with a headache so insidious that for a split second I want to seriously give up drinking. 

Only for a split second, though. 

I yawn and rub my eyes, scanning the room that I find myself in. Basked in light courtesy of an early morning or mid-afternoon I’m not sure, but it's sparsely decorated with a mattress on the floor and empty liquor bottles. I realize suddenly that I am naked, which is never a good realization, and quickly snatch up my clothes that lay before me. In this flurry of motions, I notice that there’s someone in the bed across the room (I woke up on the floor). The person, a man I assume as I step closer, is on his stomach, tossed in the bedsheets with just his brown hair peeking out, strands falling aimlessly. 

I smile a little, out of both relief and joy. _Frank_. I long to crawl into bed with him, feel his body against mine, and annoy him until he wakes so he can explain to my blackout-drunk ass why we are in a strange bedroom. I stride closer, standing above Frank so I can catch a glimpse of his face while he sleeps and his lips while he dreams. But I am soon overcome with dread and confusion when I brush aside a lock of hair and realize that _this is not Frank._ This is a stranger, no, not even a stranger. A doppelganger. (Once again, not a good realization to have.) 

I stumble back in silence because I do not want to wake Whoever This Is. My mouth is gaping and my eyes are wide as I stare in shock at this man and then the few ripped packets of condoms that litter his floor. _Fuck_. You can probably guess my third realization since waking. Nausea rumbles within me, so I turn and pray that the door I open will get me out of this foreign bedroom. 

I stumble out onto the streets of Los Angeles gasping for life, like a fish out of water thrown back into the sea. I don’t even bother looking back at the apartment building I just managed to escape from; instead, I start walking, letting memories from last night and before flood in while California’s sun bakes me. 

Within a few minutes, I am pretty confident that three days have passed since I left the studio. I did go to the woods on that first afternoon, some state park that was on the bus route. I remember ambling and marinating in my own depression, searching for a plummeting chasm that I could pitch myself off of, and when I figured out that there were probably no chasms like that in Los Angeles I swallowed some Xanax and tried to “find myself.” But then it started to grow dark. And I didn’t want to kill myself but I didn’t want to go back to the studio after making such a big deal out of it, so I went drinking. 

Based on where I just woke up, you can probably infer what I did that night and the other two nights. I remember the weight of bodies against mine, but I can’t recall what anyone’s face looked like. Except for the doppelganger I just observed. I can’t seem to lose his face. So similar to Frank’s. But too fucking different. 

I’ve been walking for about twenty minutes now but I’m still in a part of town I don’t recognize. I fumble around in the pockets of my jacket and flip open my cellphone. Fifty-Two missed calls. Jesus fucking Christ. 

It was probably melodramatic of me to have left and written that note. To have included that little bit about Jim Morrison. It’s not like I seriously wanted to kill myself. I just _felt_ like killing myself. I was just drunk. Impulsive. And now I just feel silly. 

I page through the list of missed calls. A lot, actually most, are from Frank, which makes me grimace with guilt. He’s also left some voicemails but I can’t deal with him right now. I don’t mean that in a rude way, not at all, I just know it would make me sad to hear his voice right now. 

So I call Mikey. And he doesn’t pick up, which makes me laugh. Then I call Ray. He answers on the first ring! What a guy. 

“Hey,” I greet sheepishly. “Think you can come pick me up?”

He sounds relieved, but tired, on the other end. 

The guys all come to save me from my street corner. I was hoping it would just be Ray because I’m not ready to have to look Frank in the eyes. But Frank is there, hopping out of the car with Ray and Mikey, pulling me into a bear hug and spewing a variety of questions. I feel embarrassed because people are staring at our weird conglomerate on the sidewalk. 

Eventually, hours pass and I’ve been fed, hugged, and even given a stern warning to by our manager, Brian. He tells me that what I did was fucked up. Yes. I’m aware. So I nod. He says that everyone was worried out of their minds. Frank even posted a message to the band’s website and fans from all over L.A. were searching far and wide for me. By the end, the general consensus is that I gave everyone a scare and in the future, I need to be more careful about my actions. There’s a brief discussion about therapy, but I shut it down pretty quickly. And Brian can’t really argue because between recording and our upcoming tours, there will be no time for me to get a goddamn shrink and turn my life around. I’m in this for the long haul, anyway. There’s no getting me off this train. 

So since I’m deemed Totally And Completely Fine, Just Stressed And Tired, recording will continue. The album will be done soon and then it’s straight off to Warped Tour. Holy fuck. I don’t know how to feel. 

Then it’s nighttime and Frank and I are back in our hotel room, undressing in silence. We’ve said very few words to each other since I returned. No one else knows about our relationship (is relationship even the right word to use?) so it’s not like I could pull him into a sweeping kiss when I came back. 

The room is dim, but the pale skin of Frank’s back that faces me reflects what little moonlight has filtered through the curtains. The tension is palpable. Maybe we’ll fuck. I’m not sure. Would that be enough to clear the air? Could our hollow moans substitute for conversation? 

“Where did you go?” Frank’s suddenly spoken up from across the room, now looking at me as he stands in only his boxers. Given the circumstances, I don’t think it would be politically correct for me to say that he always looks really fucking in his boxers (but he does). 

Anyways, my cheeks flush red and I pray the darkness conceals my visible shame. I fiddle with the hem of my t-shirt. 

“Doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” I respond quietly, gazing back at him. Fuck. He looks a mess. Ruffled hair. Sad, bloodshot eyes. All because of me. 

“I was so worried about you.” He says, stepping towards me. 

“Frank, I’m sorry. I was just drunk. I was--”

“I thought you were dead.” His voice breaks when he says this. Believe me when I say that it is a thoroughly disheartening sound to head. 

“I’m not. I’m right here, Frankie.” My affectionate words surprise me. I outreach a hand and cup his face because we are now standing that close. He melts into my hold and soon lets his tears fall. I catch them in my hand and then in my chest when he buries himself there, clutching onto me with a gentle ferocity. 

“I don’t want you to be like this.” Is then all he says, exhausted and desperate. I close my eyes and stroke his closely-cropped hair, feeling my own body tremor. 

Maybe my disappearance wasn’t the monumental, infamous tragedy I was bound to have given the current trajectory of my life. Maybe one day, I will do something far worse. But it was still something, at least. As embarrassed as it made me feel, it made me realize that people care about me. The fans. My band. Frank. He loves me, I know this. And up until now, he has tried his best to hide it. But now I understand that he is not hiding it. He is all but proclaiming it. 

And so as I held him in my arms, letting his tears soak through my skin and into my bloodstream, I had never felt so guilty before in my life, but neither so relieved when I felt something tender and soft blossom within my sober body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh, Gerard's fallin in love. I'm having so much fun writing his chapters and constructing his quirky tone. I'm channeling lots of Holden Caulfield!  
> Once again, thank you so much for reading. Any and all feedback is much appreciated.  
> Also, if there's a particular frerard/my chem moment you want me to cover in this fic let me know and I will try! As you can tell I'm about halfway through 2004 right now. I'm going to get to all of the infamous moments, of course, but I love the idea of taking something small or lesser-known and pasting it into the bigger picture, sort of like with Gerard's whole disappearance.  
> Until next time!


	5. These Eyes Have Had Too Much To Drink Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit ~saucy~ aka, nsfw. just a heads up. enjoy :)

It’s the summer of 2004. To say that our lives go supersonic would be an understatement. 

All of our previously conceived notions of success are obliterated. On the first day alone, the record sells twice as many copies at Bullets sold in its entire life. We get a tour bus. I get recognized in Walmarts and Taco Bells. My dad tells me he hears our songs on the radio back home. 

Warped Tour is the place where we first test our newfound sense of stardom. And the summer is hot. Too hot. Each day hits 90 by noon. Our skin eternally glistens with sweat and our clothing is consistently soaked from it. The exhaust from the rows of tour buses and the heat rising from the pavement makes my head fuzzy at all times. And at night it gets so humid I feel like I’m swimming through water instead of walking through air. Flies linger in our presence and the backs of our necks burn within minutes. 

Despite all of this, the summer is not as hellish as is should be. Because we have each other, and that’s more than enough. We are just kids, roughing it out, surviving on vending machine food and sleeping standing up. We are living in dirt, but it’s _our_ dirt, and it's glorious. The summer is also not as hellish as it should be, because I have Gerard. 

Things got different when he came back after disappearing. He changed. Little, atom-sized changes, but I noticed them. He would brush strands of hair out of my face when I was recording in the studio. He wouldn’t get out of bed to shower after we fucked. I wouldn’t say everything got lovey-dovey and shit. We were both still scared out of our minds, scared of being together and what that meant. It still took a couple of cans of PBR to convince ourselves that it was okay to touch each other as we desired. But sometimes I would be reading, gazing out the window, or biting my nails, and look up to find Gerard looking at me. My cheeks would flush red and I would divert my eyes instantaneously, wondering how long he had been watching me before I happened to notice. 

Now, as the tour is in full swing, it’s all the same. Small, atom-sized touches and glances here and there that make me wonder if I am going insane for thinking that he is starting to fall for me. Yes, I am insane. There’s no way. 

The other thing about this summer is that there’s a lot of drinking. Because why the hell not, right? Everything’s better when drunk. But through this, I learn that Gerard is an alcoholic. Actually, it’s less of learning and more of a confirmation of my worst suspicions. 

It’s hard to describe, because I’m also drinking, and drinking, and drinking. So is Mikey and so is Ray. It’s just that something about the way Gerard drinks makes me not want to let him. He drinks when he wakes up. Even more right before a show. And he’ll drink when he’s way past gone and there’s no point anymore. 

Gerard being wasted wasn’t anything new in my life. He’s always liked to get fucked up. As I said, it’s hard to describe what about this moment is worrisome. I guess it's the way that he craves it. Can't function without it. Can't sleep if he knew we didn’t have liquor for tomorrow. The way he gets stoned when someone takes the last beer or the way he gets stoned in addition to taking the last beer himself. The way he tells me that he needs this, _I need it, Frankie_ , in order to be the man on stage that everyone wants to see. 

Anyways. 

I don’t know what city we are in right now. I don’t know the time, I just know when we playing a show and when we are not. I don’t know the date, but I am somewhat confident in it being July. We really are nomads, with no home, no attachments, no connections to the cities we grace. We make camp in Somewhere, Ohio and Who-Fucking-Knows, Texas, and then take off, leaving behind no trace of our existence. It’s a hard way to live. But like I said, it’s not too bad. For the most part. 

It’s a particularly sweltering night now, and like I said, I don’t know where in America I am, but word has gotten around that our homecoming show in New Jersey is in two days. Which means that everyone is getting absolutely wasted tonight in both preparation and celebration for the event. So it’s us and a few other bands divvying up our collective pool of Bud Lights and Smirnoff’s, amongst others. In the parking lot of the venue, we breathe in the rare breezes and watch the stars peek out one by one as time passes. Gerard’s already drunk by the time we’ve all gathered. I share nervous glances with Mikey as he sways back and forth on his way to the cooler. I wish he didn’t have to do these things to himself in order to feel okay. 

I wish I was enough to make him feel okay. 

But I know that’s unfair of me to wish. 

So I push my feelings down and drink, and soon enough everything starts to feel warm. A good warm. I feel myself grow into that familiar niche of being hazy and a little more stupid than usual. And I begin to laugh with Gerard. I point out constellations to him in the sky while he drinks. I let him ruffle my hair and call me Frankie while he drinks some more. And I let him say that he loves me even though it hurts my heart because I know that since he’s drunk he doesn’t really mean it. 

The thing about Gerard is that he says that he loves me a lot when he’s drunk(which is all the time). One particular time that he said it always stands out in my memory. It was 2003. God, how was that only a year ago? We were backstage, about to play what was the biggest show of our lives at the time. Someone had a camcorder. Maybe Mikey. Gerard was a bundle of nerves slowly unraveling with each beer he drank. And I was quiet, with only a Marlboro in my hand, feeling out of place because I was suddenly a part of this band with the boy I didn’t want to love as much as I did, and because I just shaved off all my hair which made me feel particularly vulnerable. 

“I love you,” he said, probably on camera, his eyes so serious, because they were practically glazed over. 

And I said I love you, too. Because what else do you say to that? And it was the truth. He didn’t need to know that the only thing I had to drink that night was a diet coke. He didn’t need to know that when I blew my cigarette smoke onto the back of his neck a few minutes later that I was all but begging him to understand that I did really love him, sober, drunk, alive or dead. 

But like the cigarette smoke, my pleas dispersed into the air and forever vanished from his presence. 

As we lay on the asphalt, no longer hot like simmering coals, rather warm and welcoming, watching a spontaneous game of kickball, I feel the same smoke rising, threatening to leave my lips and ruin a perfectly good night. I try to focus on the taste of the alcohol, the feeling of it running down my throat. 

In our own little world, concealed by darkness, Gerard lays with his head in my lap, toying with a strand of his inky black hair. As time passes and he has soaked up what’s left of the lager like a sponge, his hands start to travel him my leg, inching up closer and closer, and he’s got that look in his eyes, that goddamn look in his eyes like he knows he’s dismantling me inside, brick by brick. He’s enjoying it because he knows I enjoy it, too. 

He leaves without another word, seeping into the night while a drunken chant of Mikey’s name starts up behind a makeshift home plate. I give it a few minutes before lapping up the final sips of beer in my can and then scampering over to our tour bus parked only about one hundred feet away. 

Next thing that I know, Gerard is all over me--his hands are all over me, roaming my skin and igniting forest fires at each location they touch. The complete and utter solitude, the awareness that for the next few minutes in time we will be totally alone, is almost orgasmic in itself. 

Since it’s summer, the sun hasn’t totally gone to sleep yet, so the bus is dark but not pitch black. Just light enough for us to see each other when we are pressed close together. We stumble around in a drunken haze, needing each other. When he palms me through my jeans and nips at my neck, I understand for a moment that he is drunk because he is hurting. But I let him kiss me still because when I’m drunk I start to care less about things I should care more about. And I know that when he’s drunk, he gets more confident more reckless, and I love that. I need him, I need him, I need him, and I don’t care what form he comes in, so long as I can be the one to touch him and taste him. 

On the couch in the back of the bus, we rid ourselves of all clothing, touching each other’s bodies like if we let go, then we will never be able to touch again. His tongue, his lips, his spit tastes like the beer he downed thirty minutes ago, and it’s as intoxicating as alcohol itself. Gerard bites my neck, he calls me a slut, and his kisses me harshly-- gorgeously. And I moan his name like it’s the only word I’ve ever learned, I beg him for more, and I take all of him into my mouth because I want him, I want him, I want him, I want him, and I want to be so good for him.

The ache in my jaw and knees is unimaginable. There’s no ability to move or do anything with all of him there, between my bottom and top lip. Nothing to do besides let him use me, let him hurt me, let him want me. Tears drip from the corners of my eyes that are thin slits, squinting desperately in the dark so as to see him, see his face, contorted with the pleasure I have brought about. 

_So fucking good_ , he tells me, over and over again, breathing my name in and out while I choke on him, struggling to breathe myself. _So fucking good,_ and his finger lace through my hair I haven’t been bothered to cut for this very reason. _So fucking good,_ and I beg he never comes because if this is the only way that I can have him, then so be it. If I have to spend all of eternity holding him delicately inside of me, bloodied knees and all, then fuck it. I will. 

But soon, _so fucking good,_ turns into just _fuck._ And then erratic, breathy moans as he pushes himself deeper inside of me than I knew to be possible. His hips buck fervently, fucking my throat raw. I revel in the feeling. Tears stream down harder and harder as I pump myself harder and harder, and then I take anything and everything he gives me, drinking up the only tangible evidence of his affection. The beautiful bitter taste that I know will linger will be a reminder of the fact that every now and then, he wants me just as much as I want him. 

When he leaves me, I double over on my palms that are coated with my own cum. I cough and gasp for air, but sweet and holy as it is, it is nothing compared to breathing in him. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, looking up to him pulling his pants back on and fastening his buckle. Post-orgasm embarrassment begins to take ahold of me, but when I stand up to pull my boxers back on, he takes my hand and pulls me down next to him on the couch. He kisses me, slowly, almost kindly. I wonder if he tastes himself in me. 

“Love you,” He said quietly, almost plainly, actually, cocking his head and looking into my eyes. I truly don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything at all. For some reason this time, it feels more real than ever before. And then he pats my cheek softly, gets up, and returns himself to the state he was in before we walked on the bus. Then there’s a fumbling around and he’s grabbing his pills from the cabinets, scooping up tiny pink and blue capsules. And because I’m drunk and he’s drunk, I tell him that maybe he’s had enough for tonight. When he doesn’t say anything I say it again. But he swallows the pills and then practically stabs me in the stomach with a switchblade through his response. 

“Don’t be a fucking prude.” 

_Don’t be a fucking prude._

Casual enough so seem like playful banter between two drunk friends. Quipped and cool, with just enough exasperation to make me feel like all of the blood in my body has drained from the wound he produced, just careless enough to concoct that familiar I-Won’t-Mean-That-In-The-Morning malice only a drunk person is capable of articulating. 

And I don’t want to be a “fucking prude” so I don’t say anything more. But I don’t want to sit here and watch him hurt while I can’t do anything, so I let him leave, knowing our routine. I’ll wait a few minutes. And then I leave, circling around so I come from a direction different than he did. I don’t know why we do these things anymore. It used to be fun. Now, the secrecy feels like an indefinite prison sentence. I would give anything to hold him, to simply be with him, unabashed in public beyond the stupid things we do on stage. 

But I understand that Gerard is afraid. And I know that I am too. So I count off five minutes in my head and then take the long way back, and when I see him again, I try not to think about the chemicals in his veins or the fact that just moments ago he was spilling his most holy possessions in my mouth. There are too many things I often try not to think about. 

I don’t lay with him when we get back. I don’t say anything when he gets fucked up again and again. Good. Let him drink. Let him smoke. Fuck it. Fuck him. 

No, I don’t mean that. 

I just want him to know that I’m mad at him for not letting me lick his wounds or kiss his cuts. So I want him to hurt so bad that he will be forced to come crawling back to me on his hands and knees. But I banish away those thoughts almost as soon as they arrive. Sometimes I just get so mad at him. I don’t know why. 

I cannot tell you how much time has passed before the night winds down. I’ve lost track of Gerard, just sitting by myself against a tree in a patch of grass off to the side of the parking lot. Nobody’s bothered to sleep in their bunks because the nighttime air is cooler than the inside of the bus. Everyone’s passed out in various places, but here, I am alone, smoking a cigarette, realizing I drank too much. 

I hear Gerard before I see him. His voice, slurred and nonsensical, cuts through the air. Then he stumbles forward into my eyesight, mumbling my name when he gets closer to me. He’s a terrible sight to see. Pink dominates what should be the whites of his eyes. They droop harrowingly, unable to focus on anything, even when I flick my cigarette away and hold his face steady between my two hands. Vomit lingers on his breath. He is even drooling a little bit. He’s like a baby. Would Freud categorize this as regression?

I say his name. _Gerard._ I let the syllables roll off my tongue with force, hoping they ensnare him and pull him out of his inebriated state. It doesn’t work. He sort of starts to cry, and I don’t know what to do. I’ve never seen him this bad. He falls over and I try to hold him up when he starts to vomit some more, resting my hand on his back, comforting him in the only way I know how to. Minutes, maybe hours, pass and he gets it out of his system, for now, rambling about the fact that his vomit in the soil is going to kill all of the plants. He says my name again, over and over again, and then lies on the ground, eyes fluttering to a close. Everything in my body hurts watching him like this. And I’m afraid he still might throw up so crawl next to him on the grass, pressing my chest to his back so he will stay on his side. He molds himself into my body, curling himself up as I tell him it will be okay, even though I know that he’s not processing a thing. 

_It will be okay. It will be okay. It will be okay._

With each second that passes, he becomes less of a stranger and more of Gerard.


End file.
